


The Captain's Club for Wayward Veterans

by ShannonXL



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Canon Related, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13382982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: What's a superhero to do when the Big Bad is finally defeated and the world doesn't need the costumes and capes anymore?Sam and Bucky use their newfound spare time wisely. Looking out for the little guy, seeing more of the world, and flirting as only two wisecracking sweethearts can.





	The Captain's Club for Wayward Veterans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/gifts).



“You good, Jay?” Sam closes the trunk with a click. The afternoon sunlight catches on his belt buckle, and James has to remind himself that yes, there is a knife, and no, it is not a current threat. Sam is on his team. Sam is on his team not like a commander or a handler. He shadows James in a way that is unfamiliar and unsettling, but not unpleasant. Sam is like an extension of himself, a limb that thinks and reacts on its own.

“Good,” he nods, piling his gear into the back seat of the car. Nothing needs to be cleaned; he never removed anything from the cases. The bulky weapons settle on the cushion with a satisfying plop.

With a yawn, Sam stretches. His shirt slips upwards, revealing a millimeter of bare skin.

“You want to stick around for a little while? Grab a bite? Might be nice to eat something with a fork and knife, from a table instead of our laps.”

James hears the suggestion in Sam’s voice, the sense of longing. Not for food in particular, but for the comfort of a  _ meal _ . The sensation of stability that comes from staying in one place for long enough to eat, to chat up a waitress, to digest, without the tension of going somewhere to interrupt the process. Learning the inside of a restaurant at one’s leisure instead of the speed of necessity. This art of enjoyment is something that James is still trying to understand. Had he been on his own, he might not have eaten at all. Instead, they have collected what Sam calls “junk food” from rest stops and drive-thru windows, and James does not miss the dizzy, blurry feeling he’s used to after a long mission.

“We can stop. I don’t mind.”

Sam nods, but doesn’t head for the driver’s seat yet. Instead, he surveys the horizon. James concludes he is once again being ‘thoughtful’, which is Sam’s vague way of describing the complicated series of emotions he carefully tucks away behind a bland, not unwelcoming expression. 

“I could drive. If you want a break.”

Sam is startled, and it takes him a moment to come back to earth.

“Nah man, driver picks the music. I’ve heard enough of the Great American Songbook for one lifetime, thank you.”

James grunts.

“That’s Steve’s music. I’m old, I’m not deaf.”

The joke has the desired effect; Sam snorts, shrugging.

“Sure. I could use a break.” He crosses to the passenger side. “Just don’t think you can sneak some Irving Berlin past me.”

Shrugging, James catches the keys as Sam tosses them. “I’m feeling charitable. I’ll let you pick the music.”

“Oh?” Sam wiggles his eyebrows. “You trying to sweet-talk me Jay?”

James rolls his eyes and gets in the car, having decided that it’s time to leave and Sam can join him - or not. 

He does, buckling his seatbelt a second after James shifts gears and presses the gas pedal. Beside him, Sam fiddles with the bluetooth menu that dominates the dashboard. A million settings - a heated steering wheel for Chrissake - and not one decent radio station. When he’s alone, James finds his preference is a toss-up between bland talk radio or the steady sound of air whooshing past the open window. He finds the frequent commercials to be jarring, alienating in their cycle of problem-product-solutions that he can’t relate to even when it’s something he can actually understand. The music is worse. He’d tried to listen to it, but he found himself stopping too often, writing too many things down, and realized quickly that he’d never have time to research it all. And even though he does, maybe, the list was so long by the time he gave up and every new thing he added meant hours and hours as he tried to untangle every detail, seven decades of linguistic evolution and cultural shifts that he can’t quite grasp, and the more he thinks about it the worse his head starts to feel. 

Sam settles on something from his iPod, and a familiar voice starts crooning from the speakers. James doesn’t need to worry about his list, because soon Sam will start filling in the blanks, unable to contain his enthusiasm. 

“Did we hear this already?”

“Not this song.” Sam closes his eyes, tapping his fingers against his knee in time with the song. “I had this on cassette when I was a kid. Played it so many times my radio ate the tape.” He smiles, glancing at James. “It’s kind of your song.”

“How? I was probably dead before any of these guys were alive.”

“You say that like there aren’t songs written about you.”

James mock-shudders.

“They’re all terrible. You’d think, all the times my memory got wiped, someone would have done me the favor of wiping that too, but nope. I’ll have ‘Gone Is Baby Bucky’ stuck in my head until I die.”

Sam actually laughs at that, full-bodied and deep. It’s a gratifying sound.

“Okay, okay, I’m gonna play it again,” he says, still chuckling. “Just listen. And don’t you dare group the Four Tops together with Reagan’s ill-advised propaganda album.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ok but we all know the in-universe Reagan would have recorded a Captain America-themed album while he was still an actor.


End file.
